Memories of A Difficult Time That Taught Us Many Things

The time of the anniversary of the Murrah Building Bombing is coming around again soon.  There are newcomers in our church and in our community who don't know about what happened here during that time.  I decided it was worthwhile to share the essays and poems I wrote during that time and a bit after, in order to let new residents know how it felt.

 

A Place Of Perfect Peace

By

Carolyn Kay Armistead -- 1996

 

     As we drive into the downtown area, I can still see damaged buildings - scars from the bombing. As we leave the car in the south parking lot, and walk toward the golden limestone of the Cathedral, I am jarred once again by the still-boarded up windows in the front of the Cathedral itself. By the time we are all the way across Seventh Street, and entering the wrought-iron gates of the cloister, my mind has already recovered. Instead of dwelling on the damage, I am already thinking of the service ahead, what we will be singing, whether it will be too warm to leave my blouse on under the cassock of my choir vestment.

 

     Across the bricked surface of the cloister, dark and cool with trees even in the summer, we pass the Lenten cross, the same cross that was propped against that tree when the bomb hit last year. Now we head up the steps to the door of the Parish House. This old, varnished wood door has never been the easiest to open, but since the bombing it is even more reluctant to move, and creaks its protest in loud metallic groans. Now up the old, creaking and popping stairs to the choir room, and into the safe territory of music folders and hymnals and vaguely mothball scented choir vestments. Here we don our robes and find our service bulletins and wait for the rest of the choir to assemble.

 

     When we gather to rehearse our anthem one last time before the service, we share many warm greetings, and small jokes. We are family, and we are making the best of things. Our service is not to be held in the beautiful old Cathedral, with its jewel-like Tiffany windows, glowing white marble high altar, and wonderful old- church smell compounded of beeswax, incense, leather, and distilled prayer. No, our service must be held in the dun brown school cafeteria /auditorium atmosphere of Dean Willey Hall, in the education building next to the Parish House.

 

     Our Cathedral, you see, is only two blocks north of where the Murrah Federal Building used to be. When that blast hit, it tore at Oklahoma's heart in many ways, not the least of which were the many downtown churches damaged by that blast. Our Cathedral is one of them. The roof was lifted and then unceremoniously dumped back on walls unprepared for such strain. It still stands, but faces extensive reinforcement and repair. For now, our solemn, beautiful, peaceful place of prayer is full of scaffolding. A big thick plastic sheet covers the whole chancel-sanctuary area from floor to ceiling. The great marble altar still seems to glow at you through the gloom of dust and plastic. The two Tiffany windows still shine out through the gloom with defiant brightness.

 

     For all the scaffolding, and the plastic, I can still close my eyes, and smelling that wonderful essence of old church, I can feel the same peace and love surround me there that I felt the very first time I prayed in that Cathedral three years ago. My husband and I were newly transferred here to Oklahoma City, after a four year tour in Germany. We were homesick for old friends, and heartsick because my mother was ill. St. Paul's Cathedral was the second Episcopal church we "sampled" in our search for a "home church." St. Paul's welcomed us with open, loving arms. Not just the people of St. Paul's, but that old Cathedral itself seemed to reach out to enclose me in its comforting embrace.

 

     As time went on, we got more comfortable in Oklahoma City, and other interests interfered with our regular attendance at church. We drifted away from that peaceful place. Then, on April 19, 1995, a bomb blast changed our lives, and the lives of all Oklahomans, forever. As I worked my way through anger and shock and disbelief at what had happened to those people, and especially the children, I began to remember that the Cathedral was near there. As soon as I realized how close the blast was to St. Paul's, I began scanning the news pictures for a sight of the church. There it was! Still standing! The old golden limestone was still glowing in the mid-morning sun, but things were wrong. The Celtic cross on the south peak of the Cathedral roof was missing an arm, and the stained glass windows in the Narthex were gone. I began to worry and to pray for the secretaries, the bookstore ladies, and the clergy that I knew might have been there working when the bomb hit. I was very angry that the one place I most wanted to go to seek peace and reassurance might be lost to me forever.

 

     My husband was one of the military volunteers who worked at the bomb site. He told me that many times, after coming out of that building disgusted and depressed, he would hear the clock chimes from one of the nearby churches and think of St. Paul's. He would look up, and gather strength from the sight of that brave, one-armed cross on the peak of the Cathedral roof. He, too, wanted to go back and try to repay the love that St. Paul's had shown us from the very beginning. We needed the Cathedral, and they needed us.

 

     The very first day that we could, we went to the Cathedral to offer our help. We were welcomed back with great affection, as though we had never been away at all. This time, we stayed, and found work for ourselves to do in the gardens, on the host committee, and in the choir. Matt also used his computer knowledge to help publicize the Capital Funds Drive to raise money needed for restoration expenses not covered by insurance. We are home to stay.

 

     The Cathedral lost no staff to the bombing, nor did we lose any parishioners, but a couple of parishioners were injured, as they worked in the Journal Record Building across from the bombing site. It has been almost a year since the bombing, and here we are, just beginning to rebuild our buildings. Our congregation however, is strong and close-knit. We have been rebuilding each other with love and caring all this past year. This choir that I rejoice in singing with has helped me feel that I am making a contribution toward that healing. It has also helped to heal me. I was in the choir at the church I grew up in, and I had missed that unique family feeling that comes when one is part of a choir. Music does more than soothe us; it unites us in worship. As we sing throughout the service, I feel that sense of love and peace from the Cathedral itself has followed us here. We are family. We have love: each other's and God's. Nothing will ever change that.

 

     Suffused with this love of God and each other, and with hope for the future, we leave our worship, and the fellowship of our Cathedral family, and head back out into the city again. This time I see all the new windows and other improvements that have come about since the bombing, and I know soon enough our old Cathedral's buildings will be whole again as well.

Looking to Reclaim Peace

By Carolyn Kay Armistead

April 16, 1997

 

     As we get closer to the day we will worship again in our restored Cathedral, I find a sense of restless expectation building, mixed with some nervous fear. It is wonderful to look forward to having our worship space back, but the reason we lost use of it in the first place is still painful.

 

     Yet, in spite of this I feel the excitement is building, more than at Christmas or Easter. The anticipation is nearly unbearable. We will see the inside of our refurbished Cathedral on Saturday for a rehearsal, but it seems a lifetime away still.

 

     That old Cathedral, so welcoming, familiar, and safe is made new, unfamiliar, perhaps a little bit treacherous. My mind doesn't have all the details of the layout, the sounds, smells, feeling of this place in storage like it did for the old space. Things will surprise me, perhaps some smells from varnish or new carpet may offend my nose, the acoustics may produce an unfamiliar resonance.

 

     We will go in on Sunday to worship, to sanctify this space anew with the perfume of our prayers and songs, to add incense and candle wax back to the aura of the place. We will also go to rejoice in a reunion with an old and dearly loved friend, and as with a human friend, we will look for the familiar features among the changes wrought by time and separation. We hope to see that same warm and comforting countenance among the new finery.

 

     Will that refurbished space still resonate with nearly a century's worth of prayer and worship? Will the newly cleaned and restored stained glass windows still give a mellow and diffuse light? Will our new contributions of incense and candle wax overcome the smell of varnish to bring out the old "odor of sanctity?" Will I know my place? Will I do the right thing at the right time and so not distract myself or others from the reason we are there? Will I be able to sing through my tears?

 

     For I will cry, I know that. I cry when I think on it, the lovely place of comfort I longed for two years ago, so abruptly taken from me. I will cry again because of the children, all the little ones lost, and their parents, that I wanted to go and pray for on that day.

 

     Though I do feel some trepidation, I know in my heart that the same comfort, the same peace will be available there that were there in the past. The same Lord is worshipped and adored in that place, and as the peace given by that Cathedral is His peace, it will be the same. For all the changes we must endure, this truth we do hold fast; Christ is steadfast, His love never changes.

 

     And so, in my mixture of emotions about coming back into the Cathedral itself, I find joy working its way to the surface. Which is as it should be. Out of our great sorrow, God has heard our cries and prayers, and our songs of praise sung in spite of our loss. Now is the time to celebrate answered prayer, to enter into His gates with thanksgiving and into His courts with praise. With songs of thankful rejoicing, let us go.

A Place of Peace and Joy

By

Carolyn Kay Armistead -- April 20, 1997

 

      As we drive into the downtown area again, I can see new glass in most windows, few buildings are boarded up anymore. There are signs of new life everywhere. The sky is a brilliant blue, and the sun warms us as we leave our car in the parking lot. We stop at the curb to look up at the Cathedral again, and our weary, longing eyes are met with a joyful sight.

 

      No more boarded up windows in the narthex, no more construction fence, no more "hazardous area" tape across the doors. Instead, the beautiful new doors to our Cathedral stand open, welcoming everyone back inside. We cross the street, but head into the cloister and from there to the education building and up to musty old Dean Willey Hall for a choir rehearsal, and to put on our vestments.

 

      There is a real sense of anticipation here today as we prepare for our first service in the renewed Cathedral. Oh, the nine o'clock service has already taken place, but for those of us who come to the 11 o'clock service, this is the first time. We are all lamenting how warm it is going to be in the loft because the air conditioning has yet to be installed. Everyone is dressed for summer weather and some delay putting their vestments on until after rehearsal.

 

      I am still afraid that I will trip, or go the wrong way, or do something else foolish during the processional or at Communion. No, I tell myself, it will be all right. After all, we've spent the last two years dodging all kinds of obstacles in Dean Willey Hall with dignity, if not grace. I'll manage.

 

      Yesterday we sang in the Cathedral for the first time, and it is glorious! The acoustics are wonderful. We don't have to strive so hard to be heard. Our loft is beautiful, and we can see the whole of the chancel and sanctuary area, and most of the nave from up there.

 

      That lovely Cathedral is definitely still a place of beauty, but yesterday there were too many things going on at once to be very peaceful. We were rehearsing, the acolytes were practicing, people were coming in to see the new space, it was quite an uproar. Yet, that old Cathedral seemed to be laughing with delight, both at its new finery, and at seeing all of us again. If buildings can smile, St. Paul's Cathedral was grinning from ear to ear yesterday during that rehearsal time.

 

      Today, on Sunday, despite some confusion before the processional, we will have a wondrous and inspiring service. As we enter the Cathedral in procession, I am struck again by the majesty of this restored space. The sanctuary walls, which used to be a coral color, are now a rich, textured red, against which the white marble of the high altar really shines. The two Tiffany windows on either side of the high altar are sparkling like jewels in the morning sunlight. As I turn to go up the side aisle on my way back to our choir stairs, I notice all the beautiful stained glass windows down the side of the Cathedral. They are all newly cleaned and restored. They too seem to glimmer in the light. I also note, as I go out the door to the narthex, that the smell of varnish is very faint, and that candle wax and incense, and some of that old "odor of sanctity" are indeed making inroads in the restored Cathedral's atmosphere.

 

      I scramble through the narthex, still unfinished, and up the as yet uncarpeted stairs to our loft. I stop, breathless, in front of my seat on the west side- front row, right next to the organ console. I struggle to catch my breath and find my place in my music. (I find that I cannot sing and climb stairs at the same time.)

 

      As we get into the sermon portion of the service, I find myself awestruck again at the glorious appearance of our Cathedral. The vaulted ceiling of the chancel is now flanked by the vaults above the two small side chapels. Then I look around at the loft I am sitting in, and realize that one set of dormers, with their stained glass windows, are there where we are now level with them.

 

      Also, I see many comfortingly familiar things. I look down on the congregation, and there is Mrs. Long in her usual place, with Mary Kathryn sitting next to her, where we used to always sit in the row behind them before we joined the choir. It is so good to see them back in their usual place. To be able to see the Dean when he preaches a very moving sermon, to be able once again to kneel at the high altar to receive Communion, to hear so many familiar voices around about me lifted in praise to God, all of that brings my spirit home. Home to that same peaceful and comforting space the Cathedral has always been for me. All through the service my spirits soared, this is my beloved, longed for Cathedral, and it is better than it was.

 

      I have my chance to say a prayer for those who were lost two years ago, but for a wonder, I do not cry. So comforting and familiar is that place, my longed for place, that I do not need to cry. Once again, that old Cathedral seems to reach out to me in my place of sorrow, and gather me in its arms and give me the peace I have been searching for. It also fills my heart with joy. Joy in finding a dear old friend alive and well after a long separation.

 

      I have found my place, and not only did I know my place, but my place knew me, and it seemed glad that I was there. Yes, our place of love and solace is restored to us, and our congregation has breathed a well - deserved sigh of relief.

 

      There are many things to delight in about our restored Cathedral, but the best thing is something we've had all along: each other. If not for the love and strength in this congregation, we would have no church at all. If not for the strength and leadership of our Dean, this restoration would never have been possible.

 

      This day's celebrations were not just to delight in being in our beloved Cathedral again, but also to thank God for the love He gave to us. Love for God, and love for one another. The joy which we have shared this day will be with us through many difficult times ahead, as we finish restoring the whole Cathedral campus. It will sustain us, and so will that love that God has put into our hearts.

Christmas Eve

By Carolyn Kay Armistead, 1996

 

The scent of pine needles, incense, and candlewax fill the air.

There is much confusion about the processional, and just who goes where.

But the night is full of magic, wonder and joy

As our Christian family prepares once again to welcome the baby boy.

 

The baby boy who came into a world of uncertainty and pain,

Who understands how we feel, being in Dean Willey Hall again,

And not in our beautiful Cathedral, with its comfort and sacredness.

He knows how it feels to deal with hatred's harmful effects.

 

Well He knows our sorrow, our impatience and our pain

And yet He makes us glad to be together, even if in the Hall again.

For He was not born in a fancy palace, or a hospital clean and grand;

But in a lowly stable, with cows, sheep and shepherds close to hand.

 

If He could be content with a birthplace so quiet and humble;

Who are we to be unhappy with our lot and to grumble?

After all, we are safe and still together, and together we still can sing

The same joyful song of angels, and isn't that the most important thing?

Good Friday

By Carolyn Kay Armistead

April, 2000

 

You taught us when we mourn

Not to wear ashes on our heads,

Not walk around filled with

Sorrow and with dread

But Lord, that was before;

Before they dragged you off

To die

Before the clouds

Stole the sunlight from the sky.

How can I not wear ashes on my head?

How can I not be filled with sorrow and with dread?

When it is my fault you are dead.

It was for me that they nailed you to that tree

It was my sin that took you away from me.